


A Clear Conscience

by Altariel



Series: Obsidian Gothics [5]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altariel/pseuds/Altariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post-war story set on DS9, chiefly concerned with a certain tailor-cum-assassin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Clear Conscience

_2386_

It was a spring morning, fresh and cool, the sort of morning that universally spoke of promise and potential.

Professor Julian Bashir had been awake for hours. After only a week, he had grown to love this city in the early morning. Before the commuter rush began, he would walk the broad boulevards, enjoying the new sun that later would become too hot for him. He would marvel at the amount of greenery there was, knowing how barren the planet was, appreciating the engineering expertise and sheer willpower that allowed such a triumphant demonstration of ingenuity over lack of resources.

He began to walk down the steps towards the plaza, but halted briefly to look at the view. The new building was directly ahead, gleaming chrome and glass in the sunlight. A large crowd had filled the square. He hesitated, knowing that he could be up there on the podium if he wanted, but decided to stay where he was and watch. He would have felt an intruder - this was a very personal celebration. He sat down on the steps.

A spontaneous round of applause broke out in the crowd, followed by loud cheers. A figure had come onto the podium. The plaza was wired up as an open-air auditorium - Julian had no trouble hearing the short speech that followed.

'Ten years ago, I stood in this city and watched it burn. I promised myself that before I died, I would see this city rebuilt and vibrant once again.

'Ten years ago, my priorities were stopping famine and disease, of keeping us alive, day by day. It's a measure of how far we've come that this morning I can open an art gallery.'

Loud cheers from the crowd.

'This represents our great achievement, as a nation, as a people. We took the ruins of our past and we have created our future. We can look round at our capital and our homeland with pride, and know that we are the envy of many other worlds.

'Yet even in this beautiful city, in front of this glorious building, I look with most pride on the people of this nation, who could have given up so easily, but who fought and who worked against everything to make this country so beautiful again; who never forgot what they had been, but who knew they could be something better. This is your triumph.'

There was rapturous applause, and music began to blare out across the auditorium. The figure was laughing. It was turning into a big party.

Julian smiled broadly, then turned as he realized someone was behind him. It was a woman, still young, dressed in black, exuding an undefinable but obvious authority. Her face, usually serious and intense, was measurably relaxed.

'I'd have thought you'd be down there,' said Bashir.

Her mouth twitched. 'Just checking on security. I saw someone lurking up here on the steps.' She sat down next to him, companionably, moving a little stiffly to compensate for her damaged leg, an old injury. Bashir had never asked how she'd got it - he didn't want to know. 'I didn't want a sniper,' she added.

'You're incorrigible,' Bashir said amiably.

'Just cautious,' she said. They sat in silence for a little while, watching the scene below.

'So, doctor, what do you think of our capital?'

'I think it's probably the most beautiful city I've ever seen,' he replied truthfully.

She smiled contentedly. 'It _is_ beautiful, isn't it?'

He watched her glow for a little while. 'Was it all worth it?'

She glanced at him, then nodded towards the figure of the podium. 'Look at him. He's universally loved and respected. He will go down as one of the greatest figures in our history.' She paused. 'Of course, that's all incidental. Look how happy he is, doctor. Of course it was worth it. All of it.'

***

_2376_

Sitting in her office, Colonel Kira Nerys heard the voice of her second in command come through the com.

'Colonel, the shuttle is making its final approach and will be docking within the next few minutes.'

The sense of apprehension which had been hanging over her since this visit had been arranged gripped her once again. She was shortly to be the bearer of bad news, a role she did not appreciate having forced upon her.

She stood up, smoothing her uniform automatically, sighing to calm her anxiety. There was nothing she could do immediately - she must focus on welcoming her guest. She had to admit she was looking forward to seeing him again, and she was not the only one on the station.

Heading towards the docking area, she reflected on how busy the past 52 hours had been. DS9 was hosting its first major political summit since the end of the war - and the first under her command, a high profile event for the Bajoran government. The Cardassian Reconstruction Committee was meeting to evaluate progress across its first year, and to outline policy for its second year. The representatives from the other three overseeing governments - Romulan, Klingon and Federation - were already on the station. As Commander of the Bajoran outpost closest to Cardassian space - and with personal experience of the war on Cardassia - Kira herself had been appointed the Bajoran representative to the Committee.

Whilst the overseeing governments were represented by - albeit senior - military or political functionaries such as herself, the Cardassian government naturally took a much more serious interest in the Reconstruction Committee. Their representative was no less than the First Minister of the New Government - and this was who she was now going to greet.

The Cardassian emphasis on the Reconstruction Committee was unsurprising - the Committee was responsible for channelling significant amounts of aid into the economically and physically devastated Cardassian Union. Yet Cardassia remained in desperate straits. Industry had been completely destroyed and a significant proportion of the population was in still in displaced persons camps.

Kira's last communiqué from the first minister had made less than cheerful reading. He had reported that there was a growing sense of anger within Cardassia that their problems were not being taken seriously by the rest of the quadrant. There was also increasing impatience with his administration that normality was not being delivered quickly enough, and a number of voices were suggesting that the embryonic Cardassian experiment with democracy should be aborted, and authority handed back to the military.

All this would not make Kira's news welcome. She took a deep breath as she reached the airlock.

The airlock opened, and two Cardassians emerged, armed, in uniform - although not the familiar and despised one. Behind them followed a young Cardassian woman and, grasping her arm, the First Minister of the New Cardassian Government.

Kira smiled involuntarily. She was not surprised at how pleased she was to see him again, but she saw a little sadly that he looked older, his raven hair now clearly flecked with grey. It could only have been a hard year.

On seeing her, his own face broadened into a smile. 'Colonel. A pleasure, once again.' He held out his hand.

Well, at least he was still switching on the charm when necessary. She clasped the offered hand. 'Welcome back to DS9. It's good to see you again, Garak,' she added, and the warmth was clear in her voice. 

He smiled again, and turned to the girl at his arm. 'Colonel, allow me introduce my daughter, Peyta Garak. Peyta is the only member of my family to have survived the war. I'm a very lucky man in that respect - so many people have no-one.'

Kira smiled and nodded at the girl. She noted Peyta's tense physique, her sharp, ceaselessly moving eyes, her inscrutable expression. Kira thought of herself at the same age - what, twenty? - angry, passionate, a child whose childhood had been stolen by circumstance. She thought of another Cardassian girl, Tora Ziyal, who had given herself trustingly and unconditionally to Kira and Garak and, as a result, had blazed through their lives - bright, but very swift.

And now here was Garak's daughter. She looked exactly like her father, but Peyta was making no concessions, no attempt to charm her audience. She seemed closed up, distant, as separated from the people around her as her father had been all the time he had lived on the station. _What have you seen?_ thought Kira. _What did the war do to you?_

Peyta was looking back at her calmly, and then she spoke. Her voice was low, measured. 'I'm pleased to meet you, Colonel. May I express my gratitude for what you did for Cardassia during the war?'

It was not the language of a young woman. It was controlled, as if each word had been carefully chosen before the event, and presented now, as the occasion demanded.

Kira bowed her head in acknowledgement. 'I'm glad to have helped.' She had resolved her emotions about being seen as a saviour of Cardassia some time ago. It appeared that the Prophets had a sense of humour. 'Well,' she said, turning back to Garak. 'Normally I'd offer you the tour of the station at this point, but it does seem a little redundant...' There was something ridiculous in the thought of dragging Garak along to show him the sights of the Promenade. She wondered briefly whether he would be perturbed to see that his shop was currently standing empty, then decided he probably wouldn't care. He had, of course, once put a torch to it.

Garak smiled wryly. 'Indeed, Colonel, I probably know some of the station's more obscure passageways rather better than you do. I would prefer to go to our quarters. I imagine there is a reception for the Committee later this evening?'

Kira nodded. 'You're the last to arrive. The reception's scheduled for 20:00 hours - plenty of time yet.'

Garak frowned. 'I look forward to the festivities immensely,' he said drily. 'Well, lead on, Colonel. I hope you've arranged something a little more luxurious than I was used to when I lived here.'

***

It was, indeed, more luxurious - and Garak noticed that the room was much warmer than he had ever managed to make his quarters in all the years he had lived on the station. A thoughtful touch on the part of the Colonel.

His bodyguards were positioned outside. Peyta was exploring the rest of the suite. Garak stood and watched the stars, clutching a glass of kanar, and felt a familiar sense of melancholy settle on him. DS9 had never helped his mood.

Yet he felt oddly ambivalent about his return to the station. He had hated it here; he had _longed_ to return home. In later years, when the option of returning to his old life was no longer there, he had planned a future at peace, at home with Mila, with his daughter, finally free of the past, of Tain and the Order - of the person he had been. Even when it became clear that the Cardassia he had once known would not survive the war, he had clutched at Damar like a drowning man, seeing someone capable of leading Cardassia onwards, of taking responsibility - and leaving Garak free.

He downed half the glass in a single gulp. Damar's death had finished everything. When the dust settled, only Garak was left from the rebellion - true to form - the last man standing, surrounded by corpses. A crippled, terrified nation looked at him, and begged him to save it. There _was_ no-one else. It seemed like a poor reward, somehow - for all concerned.

And now, these days, he would lie awake in his bed in his pre-fabricated residence in the ruined capital, watching dawn creep across the ceiling, and thinking that perhaps he had been happy on DS9, that he had never been so free, and never would be again. He would think about this, rather than about his ravaged, desperate kingdom which consumed his thoughts in the daylight hours.

'Are you thinking about Damar again?'

He had not heard Peyta enter. He turned and looked at his daughter, at her serious, beautiful face, and smiled.

He remembered when she had burst into his office, six weeks after the end of the war. He had thought she had died when the Dominion eradicated Lakarian City. He had never experienced such a burst of pure joy - despite the misery of that time, when his thoughts had otherwise been permanently engaged in managing the burial of thousands upon thousands of dead - that single moment stood out as the happiest of his life. He recalled it every time he looked at her, and it gave him hope.

He reached out and touched her cheek. 'Dearest Peyta. You are very good to me.'

She looked back fiercely, grasped his hand, and squeezed it tight. 'I would do _anything_ for you.'

His smile became a little sad. He remembered protesting that himself, to his own father, just after Tain exiled him. 'I hope it will never come to that...'

***

Taking a glass from the offered tray, Kira noticed somewhat grimly that the Cardassian contingent was being avoided. A handful of station personnel who remembered Garak were drifting past and saying their hellos but mostly the Cardassians were being ostracized, the outcasts of the quadrant. It was a natural reaction, Kira told herself - but she had seen Cardassia Prime burn, and watched Garak's inconsolable grief in the ruins of hishome and his hope. The destruction of Cardassia could not be the symbol of poetic justice to Kira that it was to so many throughout the quadrant - yet a decade ago she would have kissed the hand that offered it to her.

It was no real consolation to notice that, more generally, people were keeping themselves to themselves. The Romulans were bunched together, keeping their distance from the Klingons. Federation and Bajoran personnel were bridging the gap between them a little, but it didn't say much for the spirit of post-war co-operation. One could almost feel the tectonic plates of new agendas shifting underfoot.

The door to the reception room opened, and Kira was relieved to see the station's chief medical officer enter. Julian Bashir's eyes fell on Garak and his face lit up. He made his way directly across the room towards the Cardassian, cutting past a number of dignitaries whose good opinion he should really have been fostering. Kira smiled. There was nothing false about Julian. She watched them greet each other, clasping hands; and then Peyta was introduced, the absence of Ezri explained, the old friendship moved back into gear... Garak relaxed visibly.

As did Peyta, Kira noticed. As her father and his friend spoke, the girl became less tense, and even started to smile slightly. But her eyes were fixed almost exclusively on her father. _It's not really surprising,_ Kira mused. _He was in exile for most of her childhood, and then she probably thought he was dead. How many people on Cardassia will have been reunited with a loved one? Chances are that if Garak wasn't so prominent they would_ never _have found each other._ Kira thought sharply of her own experiences as a refugee, remembered the stories of so many who had lost track of a father or a daughter, never to see them again. Damned Cardassians...

She checked herself. It was so easy - too easy. These were different people now. A people who had destroyed themselves through arrogance, yes - but a defeated people, a devastated people. And _no_ child or parent deserved to experience the suffering and loss which she had seen in her youth on Bajor. _You must let go of the past - we all must. They had to build bridges._ She took a swig from her drink, and made her way towards the Cardassians.

***

The following morning, early, Kira took a deep breath, grasped the PADD she was holding tightly, and hit the door chime on the door of Garak's quarters.

The door opened, and Garak said, 'Come in, Colonel. This is unexpected. I didn't think I'd see you before the first session.'

Without preamble, Kira handed Garak the PADD. 'This is the agenda for the Committee meeting. I think you should be forewarned about some... issues which are going to emerge.'

Garak frowned and took the PADD, his eyes scanning the contents. Kira watched his face, seeing it change from puzzlement to disbelief to downright fury.

'As you can see,' she continued, shame rising in her stomach and red spots burning on her cheeks, 'the Committee are intending to downscale aid to Cardassia and are introducing a schedule for reparation payments.' Her attention flickered briefly to Peyta, who had started briefly and masked a sharp hiss, and was now watching her father intently.

Garak was staring at the PADD. Finally, he spoke.

'How do you expect me to respond to this, Colonel? With _equanimity_? Am I supposed to just shrug it off?'

'Garak, I appreciate that this is not good news...'

'Not _good news_? Do you _know_ what an understatement that is?' Garak's eyes flashed in sheer anger. He paced the room, trying to acquire some level of self-control.

Peyta had not moved an inch, Kira noticed, but her eyes were narrow, and were following her father's path around the room.

Eventually, Garak turned back to Kira. His voice was low. 'Did you know that we had famine on Cardassia Prime last winter, Colonel? A quarter of a million Cardassians died of _hunger_. Many, many more died - are _dying_ \- from disease. As for the outlying worlds - the situation out there is worse, and I can offer them nothing. We are _ruined_ , Colonel. We have _nothing_. And you present me with this - _abomination_!' He slammed his hand on the PADD.

Kira swallowed, 'Garak, I understand you're angry...'

' _Angry_...?' he whispered.

'This is _not_ my doing.'

'Then whose is it? It _reeks_ of Bajoran vindictiveness!'

'Garak, that isn't going to help!'

'Nor will it help the quadrant when _my_ government collapses and the military gets back into power on Cardassia!'

Out of the corner of her eye, Kira noticed Peyta's eyes flick closed briefly.

'The case you're making is a strong one, Garak, and I'm sure the Committee will be open to what you're saying.'

'The _Committee_?' he sneered. 'Is there _anyone_ there likely to be sympathetic to us?'

'Cardassia made her own enemies, Garak,' Kira shot back.

'I don't need _you_ to tell _me_ that.' Garak closed his eyes, and his shoulders slumped. Kira had the strong feeling that she was watching defeat.

She was aware of Peyta behind her. 'Colonel,' the girl murmured. 'I would be grateful if you could leave us. I believe my father has some matters to consider before the Committee meeting.'

Kira nodded and withdrew. The door closed behind her, sealing off the two Cardassians from the rest of the station, but she lingered briefly. Voices were being raised inside, but she could not make out enough of the words to make sense of the argument.

***

Peyta Garak strode through the station's corridors, punctuating her fury and sense of impotence with every footfall. She was refraining herself from kicking at doors, at walls, at passers-by.

She refused to take this lying down. Whatever her father's opinion of the complicity of the Cardassian people in their own downfall, Peyta was not interested in the past. She saw immediate problems - of hunger, disease, destruction - and she wanted prompt solutions. She herself had done nothing to take Cardassia into war, and neither had much of the civilian population which starved and died and rotted in the wrecked streets.

She reached the Promenade. She stopped and looked around at the affluence around her, the different stalls and shops trading in products ranging from the classy to the downright tacky. She paused in front of a jewellery stall, fingering the precious stones, the rings and bracelets.

She remembered the first market place she had visited, in the capital, when she was a tiny girl, no more than five. She had clutched her father's hand throughout, but had been mesmerized by the blaze of colours, the noise of people laughing, talking, bartering, the chink of money and the smell of food. They had eaten outside, sitting on a wall - the first time she had done that, too - and she had watched the bustle of the crowd, alive, vital. Cardassia would see nothing like it again for years.

'Do you want to try that on?' She looked up at the shop owner, a Bajoran who was trying to decide whether it was better to get rid of the Cardassian or if there was the possibility of a sale.

'I don't think so.' She put it back down, and left before he could start insulting her. It would be a long, long time before she would have the opportunity to wear jewellery again, never mind have the money to buy it.

She stood still for a while on the Promenade, the people passing her by, some giving her a wide berth, others muttering about Cardassians not so quietly as they passed her. This kind of petty abuse had been something her father had put up for years while he was here. And now it was hers to share. Just part of her inheritance as a Cardassian.

I am twenty years old, thought Peyta Garak. I am from a despised, desperate people who were once powerful, and who now hold out a begging bowl which the rest of the quadrant kicks aside. I can live with this for the rest of my life, or I can change it.

There wasn't really a decision to make.

***

A murmur rippling through his customers made Quark look up from fiddling his books. A Cardassian woman had come into the bar. Cardassian trouble always came in ones.

She had realized that eyes were on her, mostly Bajoran, and she was glaring back defiantly. _Try me - I'm having a bad day,_ was what her look and her clenched hands were saying.

First rule of hospitality - stop the clientele from kicking the hell out of each other. 'What can I get you?' said Quark, trying to distract her. She snapped her gaze towards him, and he saw the similarity in the eyes, and remembered Nog's description of how Cardassian assassins look just before they string you up.

'Kanar - if you have any.' She sat down at one of the barstools. The Lurian at the other stool took one look at her, decided she was not going to be a good conversationalist, and edged away slightly.

'Too much. Not many Cardassians coming through these days.' He poured it out. 'This one's on the house - for old time's sake. How is your father?'

She narrowed her eyes. 'My fame goes before me, does it?'

'You're the only Cardassian woman on the station that I'm aware of.'

'How unforgivably conspicuous of me.' She sipped at the drink. 'My father's fine. Despite everything.'

Quark frowned. 'Things don't sound so rosy on Cardassia these days.'

'They're not.' She didn't elaborate.

'I was surprised he went back. Nice little business he had here, making a fair bit of money. Can't see why anyone would want to throw that over for a pile of rubble, but then you never could tell with Garak.'

Her mouth twitched. 'Some people are sentimental about rubble.'

'Sentimental - Garak?' He whistled. 'Not the first word that comes to mind.'

'And what does come to mind?' she asked softly.

'Well, since you ask...' He started counting off on his fingers. 'Slippery, devious, dangerous, probably borderline psychotic...' He took a breath, looked at her smiling face and remembered who she was. 'How do you _do_ that?' he said.

'Do what?'

'Make people say things they really shouldn't be saying to you.'

She smiled. 'Just something I learnt from my father. Amongst other things.'

Quark shivered. 'Great. Well, you just keep this bottle - and I'll go over here where you're not.' He slid off towards Morn.

Peyta grinned into her glass. Her eyes fell on the bottle of kanar, and she frowned slightly as she saw the reflections approaching behind her. She didn't move, wanting the people approaching her to think they had the edge. Two Bajorans sat down on the stools on either side of her, and she felt the breath of a third on the back of her neck.

'You're not welcome here,' the one behind her whispered.

She nodded. 'I know that.' She made no attempt to leave, just reached for her glass. The Bajoran on her right put his hand in the way, preventing her from taking it. 'Why don't we escort you off the premises?' he suggested.

An expectant silence had descended over the bar. Morn was looking worried. Quark discreetly called for Security and made a move towards Peyta's end of the bar. But before Quark could put in a single conciliatory word, Peyta looked directly at the Bajoran who had spoken and smiled happily. 'Why don't _I_ stay where I am, and _you_ keep your crooked noses to yourselves?'

Several things happened very quickly. Peyta was pulled off her chair and thrown face down onto the ground with her arms twisted behind her and the Bajoran's knee pressed into the small of the back. A roomful of voyeurs gasped in thrilled anticipation. Quark started counting the cost of a refit. And a voice shouted across the room, 'Leave her alone or I'll blow your heads off.'

From her less than perfect vantage point, Peyta cranked her head up slightly, and saw Meltek, one of her father's bodyguards, standing at the doorway of the bar, armed, and with the weapon pointing in the direction of the little tableau Peyta had engineered.

There was a brief pause, as three Bajorans calculated their chances. Not good. They pulled back, and Peyta rolled round onto her back, wiped her mouth, and smiled crookedly. 'I _told_ you to keep your crooked noses to yourselves.' One Bajoran took a step forward. Quark raised his eyes. Just like her father - didn't know when to shut up.

'Please don't push your luck, ma'am,' Meltek said sharply, raising the weapon slightly, making the Bajoran step back again. Peyta stood up, brushed herself down and smiled at Quark. 'Thanks for the drink. I'll pass your regards on to my father.' She left the bar, keeping her cool. Four steps outside and out of sight, she leaned against the wall, breathing deeply to calm her shaking. Meltek came up beside her.

'You took your time,' she said. 'They could have cut my damn throat.'

'Would have served you right. Might I suggest that you keep away from the Bajoran population of this station? Perhaps by staying in your room, with a bag over your head.' He holstered his weapon.

'I had to get your attention somehow.' She grinned at him. 'You were just following me round, making no effort to talk... You're not very sociable, are you, Meltek?'

He frowned. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

She took his arm. 'I want a little chat.'

He glared at her hand. 'What about?'

'This and that. Politics. Parents. Payment.' She felt him tense beneath her touch. 'I think I have a little job for you, Meltek.'  
***

Garak sighed, appended his immaculate signature - and the treaty came into force. He had just handed over five systems to the Romulan Empire. Twenty years ago, information he had acquired whilst on Romulus had been significant in taking two of these systems into Cardassian control in the first place. He recalled it had cost two agents their lives and him ten days having his bones broken and his head kicked by the Tal Shiar.

The reality was that it was impossible for him to sustain an empire any longer. Six months previously, he had handed two systems to the Klingons, and a further eight had become Federation protectorates. Cardassian boundaries were now the smallest they had been in centuries. But with chaos on the home world itself, how could he possibly attempt to maintain an empire? The people in these systems would be better served as citizens of other nations - the likelihood was that within eighteen months their standard of living would be better than that on Cardassia Prime. Unfortunately, the pragmatism and logic of this argument was not popular on Cardassia. Another complaint to level against his government - that it was weak, that it was bowing to external influence, that it was reducing Cardassia to nothing, and failing to bring any benefits in return.

So now to his main priority. The last item on the agenda - the question of aid, and the associated one of reparations.

He barely listened as the Klingon representative put his case, preferring to doodle with the pen with which he had just eviscerated the Union. He drew geometric patterns, the regularity of the shapes soothing him, and he took an almost childlike satisfaction in his talent at improvising such attractive designs. It was a lovely pen, a gift from Bashir almost a year ago, just after Garak had become First Minister. Garak had remarked in a letter that official Cardassian documents were still supposed to be signed in ink to give them legal force. Julian had sent him the pen, pointing out that Garak would need it, given his recent promotion. It had cheered him immensely, a connection with shredded traditions he was trying hard to mend. He used the pen rarely, ink being an unimaginable luxury on Cardassia. Still, he drew with it now, extravagantly, the patterns becoming more and more intricate; his preoccupation with sustaining and expanding the design keeping him calm. 

The Klingon was spouting the usual mishmash of xenophobia and triumphalism that Garak had come to expect over the past year, which had enraged him at first, but which he now automatically tuned out, as he had tuned out Bajoran slurs after a little while on DS9. The Klingon finished his tirade. The Romulan simply seconded the motion without bothering to add anything. 

Kira spoke to him. 'First Minister, I assume that you want to speak against the motion?'

He nodded, pulled together his notes. He realized that he was playing feverishly with the pen, distracting the speakers from what he had to say - but he knew that if he didn't do something with them, it would be clear to everyone that his hands were shaking of their own accord. His voice, when he started to speak, was tired, almost defeated. It didn't even inspire him.

'What I have to say is quite simple,' he began. 'If this motion is passed, Cardassia will be set back another fifty years. This may well suit many of you, to have one less potential enemy on your borders. But I ask you to consider the cost to my people. Last winter on Cardassia Prime was one of the worst this century. As a result, a quarter of a million people died of hunger. As this first year since the war comes to an end, more than eighty per cent of our population are still without homes. We still face a mammoth task just to restore us to basic living standards. The aid from your governments is crucial in this. I beg you not to reduce it.'

He stopped, swallowed. He hated this constant need for supplication, for throwing himself on the mercy of governments who detested him and his people, and who took pleasure in seeing their desperate state.

'In the matter of reparation payments, I simply cannot see how Cardassia will be able to pay, and I would point out that if we are forced to pay, it will cost the lives of many more of our citizens. I have never denied my nation's culpability in the war,' he continued, making no reference to the fact that these were decisions made long after he could have had any influence on them. Nor did he add that no Cardassian had done as much to fight the Dominion as he had - with the possible exception of Damar, who had paid with his life. 'Nonetheless, we have already paid a very high price for our actions. All of this you could see if you came to Cardassia Prime.' It was a source of much bitterness to Garak that the only members of the Committee who had a real idea of conditions on Cardassia were Colonel Kira, who had seen what the Dominion had done - and himself, who lived with it every day.

He put down the pen, picked it up again. The rest of the Committee waited. 'Moreover,' he said, 'I believe that once this set of policies is made public, my government will collapse. Whilst my political career is not of importance - indeed, a political career was not something I have _ever_ wanted - you should be aware that this would finish the experiment with democracy on Cardassia. I believe that a military coup would take place shortly afterwards. Your governments may have thought they were acting magnanimously in not dismantling the Cardassian military infrastructure after the war, but I believe it would be something you would all regret in five years' time, should the military regain control of Cardassia. Reparations may seem just, they may seem righteous - but you will pay the price of them in time. Please, do not get into the cycle of revenge.'

He could do nothing more. The monstrous injustice of the motion exhausted him, sapped his ability to fight it. He looked down at the pen, twisting and turning it in his hand, then finished. 'These policies will kill many, many people. I urge you - no, I _beg_ you - to reconsider this motion and to reject it.' He stopped.

The Federation envoy had been nodding for some time. 'We believe that this course of action will result in the deaths of many Cardassians and may well destabilize the current government on Cardassia,' she agreed quietly. 'We completely oppose this motion.'

Garak looked round. The Klingon and the Romulan were looking at him dispassionately. They were not going to change their vote. The Romulan spoke. 'Quite simply - Garak - I don't believe you.' The man wasn't even bothering to address him by his title. Garak seethed inwardly, but managed to restrain himself from displaying how angry he was at this small but very pointed discourtesy. The Romulan representative to the Reconstruction Committee had always been shown a severe dislike of the Cardassian First Minister. Garak wondered briefly whether he had done something to this man in his previous life. Perhaps he'd tortured him, or had a relative killed - there must be something. _I really should not have lost track of all that..._ Garak thought. _It's going to come back and haunt me one day._

Garak twisted the pen more quickly, making it the focus of his anxiety. The Romulan continued, 'Cardassia has had twelve months of very generous gifts from our governments. It's time that this - very costly! - aid was cut back and Cardassia attempted to develop some form of economic infrastructure. It's not our fault if that has not been your focus with the money across the past year.'

Garak shook his head - _'develop some form of economic infrastructure'_? Damn right that hadn't been his focus. Call him old-fashioned, but burying dead bodies to prevent disease and getting food out to prevent starvation had seemed much more pressing. Whatever planet this man was on, it certainly wasn't Cardassia Prime. An economy wasn't an easy thing to kick-start when you had no roads or communications, and when your workforce had a tendency to drop dead from hunger and disease at a frightening rate.

The Romulan envoy had more to say. 'Secondly, this war has been costly for all of us. It is a war for which the Cardassian Union is to a large degree responsible. It is only appropriate that Cardassia should pay for some of it. Again, if this possibility has not been foreseen by your government, and you have failed to make provision for it, we cannot be held responsible.'

Garak shrugged inwardly. If they wanted to impose reparations, let them. Did they seriously think there was any money there to pay them? Perhaps when Cardassia defaulted, they might come and take a look and understand why. He thought frivolously that perhaps he should make broken stones the new Cardassian currency. There were certainly enough of them about. He stifled a somewhat hysterical laugh at the thought of paying in bags of rubble. Perhaps he could pay in corpses, he thought, his humour getting blacker as his desperation increased. That was something else Cardassia was rich in at the moment.

The Romulan hadn't finished. 'As for the possibility of a coup - well, this sounds like the fantasy of politician who is losing popular support. _If_ this were really a possibility, we would be concerned. None of us want to see the military back in power on Cardassia, bearing in mind what happened last time. Nonetheless, it seems much more likely that you are trying to persuade us that you are under threat from the military, when really the threat is simply from your opposition. Perhaps what Cardassia _needs_ is a change of government - to one that might have more success in managing the Cardassian economy?'

There was a strained silence. Garak burned with humiliation and frustration.

The vote stood at two for, two against. Time for the Bajoran representative to cast the deciding vote. Kira looked down at her notes and shuffled them for a few moments, before making her own contribution. 'I have received precise orders from my government on this issue,' she said, conscious of Garak's presence as he tapped on the table with his pen. Her voice sped up as she rushed the words out. 'I have been instructed to vote in favour of the motion, which is therefore carried, three votes to two. We should fix another session for working out the details.' Kira Nerys was not a coward. She looked Garak straight in the eye. 'I'm sorry, Garak, I...' she began, but the apology withered in her throat. His expression was unbearable. She bowed her head in shame. 

Garak's drumming with the pen stopped suddenly. He had broken the nib. He looked down at it in disproportionate distress. There was silence.

Garak cleared his throat, and Kira looked back up at him. He inclined his head slightly towards her, in a mockery of courtesy. 'Colonel,' he said. 'It's been a long journey, but you've finally made the transition from free thinker to government lackey. Allow me to be the first to congratulate you.' He turned to the rest of the Committee. 'Please excuse me. I think that it's time we took a break.'

'Meeting adjourned...' Kira whispered.

Garak stood up and left the room with as much dignity as he could manage. His bodyguard fell into step behind him. He headed down the familiar corridors, entered the turbolift. Inside, he slumped back against the wall, closed his eyes, rubbed a hand across his face. He realized in horror that he was close to tears. It wasn't the contempt, it wasn't the hatred, it wasn't even the racism which he knew lay behind the decision. It was his own impotence in the face of it and, worse, his inability to counter it, to persuade these people to act against their instincts. 

He was profoundly angry with Kira. He had doubted he could seriously do anything to prevent the Klingons and the Romulans from extracting more blood from Cardassian stone, perhaps had hoped he could force one abstention. But he had rightly suspected that he could persuade the Federation that there was some aspect of enlightened self-interest in pouring money into Cardassia, and he had been depending on Kira to back him up. He had not even considered that she would vote against him, had thought that her knowledge of conditions on Cardassia meant he could rely on her... It was a bad misjudgment on his part. She was not a typical Bajoran, something he should never have forgotten. It was only natural that her compatriots would want to be part of this act of revenge, and he didn't honestly believe that she could have voted against explicit orders from her government. What angered him was that she must have known her instructions yesterday morning when she came to see him, that she must have known that he had almost no chance of preventing the motion being carried. She could at least have saved him the indignity of begging.

Damar could have stopped it, he knew, bitter once again that a brief, frenzied firefight had cost the life of the man who really could have protected and nurtured Cardassia. Damar, whose military career had given him credibility with the Cardassian people, when Garak's own profession made only for mistrust. Damar, who had been able to offer the passion of the convert, of a man who had seen the error of his ways and had chosen a better path; who could inspire belief and faith. But instead, the Cardassian people had Garak, whose only achievement had been not to get killed, to keep on living, through fair means or, more likely, foul - a man who inspired distaste and who now, when it most mattered, had failed the Cardassian people completely. _I am the wrong man at the wrong time,_ he thought. _I should be someone else, somewhere else._

He had said all this to Peyta the previous morning, when he had learned about the reparations motion. She had hit back in fury.

'You are _not_ Damar, father!' she had yelled. 'You will _never_ be him. Stop trying! You love Cardassia as much as he did; you want everything for Cardassia that he wanted. And you can get it, somehow. When he was a foot soldier, _you_ were the second most powerful man on Cardassia - for almost twenty years! When he was working for the Dominion, _you_ brought the Romulans into the war and probably saved the entire Alpha Quadrant! You won't get _anything_ pretending to be Damar.' She had tried to offer alternatives. 'What if Damar were alive and _still_ we lost this vote? What would you do then?'

So he'd told her, and felt better when he'd finished, more confident.

She'd smiled back at him. 'Now get in there and win that vote,' she'd said.

The lift reached its destination smoothly, and Garak's mouth twitched. What sort of man depended on his daughter to pull him out his blackest moments? Garak shrugged, flicked his broken pen up into the air, and caught it lightly on the way down. Now was not the time for self-reflection, he thought. Now was the time to think of Plan B.

The lift door hadn't opened. He frowned, and jabbed at the control. Nothing happened. He heard a familiar sound behind him, of a weapon being drawn. And then he felt a familiar sensation - a weapon being pressed into his back.

'Don't move,' whispered Meltek, 'Or I'll kill you.'

***

Colonel Kira slammed her hand on her desk. Her security chief and her second in command jumped backwards. Kira had never shot a messenger yet, but there was a first time for everything.

She glared at them. 'When did this happen?'

The security chief cleared his throat. 'About fifteen minutes ago. The other bodyguard was killed probably about four hours ago, but the body had been hidden.'

'Where the _hell_ were our guys?' Station protocol demanded that security was never left simply the responsibility of visitors. DS9 Security was ultimately accountable for protecting any high profile visiting figure, regardless of their own security arrangements.

Her two officers didn't answer. Kira breathed out. No point getting into recriminations. They had a situation on their hands and they needed to fix it. She could find out how the hell it had happened once they were in the clear. 'OK, where are they?'

'They're holed up in turbolift 8, between levels twelve and thirteen. He's sealed the door and the access channel. The communicator's still working, though. Do you want to talk to him?'

'Damn right I do,' Kira snarled. 'And get Peyta here - I don't want her held hostage too.'

***

Garak cleared his throat. Meltek's hand twitched behind him.

'Do you intend to keep me standing for the duration, or would you mind if I sat down? I'm not as young as I used to be.'

There was a pause. 'Turn round - slowly.'

Garak did as he was told. 

Meltek nodded. 'You can sit down.' 

Garak slid down the wall, starting to feel slightly out of breath. _Typical. Of all the places I could be taken hostage, it has to be a lift. This had better not take too long._

The communicator on the wall chimed. Meltek jumped. 

_I hope he gets over his nervousness. I hate twitchy captors. Especially armed ones._

Kira's voice came through. 'Meltek, this is Colonel Kira Nerys, Commander of Deep Space Nine. I'd like to talk...'

Meltek cut through her. 'No, you don't talk, Colonel. You _listen_. My demands are straightforward enough. It's come to the attention of the Cardassian military that this traitor - ' he waved his weapon at Garak.

_They've started rewriting history already. Which particular treachery is he referring to, I wonder? There are so many to choose from..._

' - has just signed away Cardassian territory to the Romulans.' 

_Oh, that one._

'It's my duty to inform you that the Cardassian military no longer recognizes the authority of his government, and any actions taken by this man are void. As of now the military is assuming control of the Cardassian government.'

He took a deep breath, and continued. 'In thirty minutes, I shall be coming out of here. By that time, I want transport arranged off the station, back to Cardassian space. I shall keep the " _First Minister_ "' - he spat - 'hostage throughout this period. Any attempt at duplicity on your part will be most unpleasant for him. Once his government is removed, the military will be re-opening negotiations over the issues of aid and reparations. We reject the legality of the motion passed earlier today.' 

He paused, looked at Garak with naked hatred. 'In the meantime, what I want _immediately_ is a communication channel opened to Cardassia Prime.'

***

Kira cut the channel briefly, clenching her fist in a victory gesture. 'Excellent! He's not been in touch with his people back home yet. We can still contain this. I want a news blackout on this - it's not to get around the station, never mind reach Cardassia Prime.' Her second in command rushed off.

She opened the channel again, spoke calmly. 'We hear you, Meltek. We're working on that channel right away, and on the transport. In the meantime, can you assure me that the First Minister is all right?'

His voice came back at her. 'You just get that channel and the transport, Colonel, and _Garak_ will be fine. I can't promise you anything otherwise.'

***

Garak watched his captor cut the communication channel.

'Something tells me you're not just a patriot.'

Meltek glared at him.

'Did I do something to offend you at some point? Maybe I'm not paying you enough. Of course, I don't think _I'm_ being paid enough, when you consider the tribulations that come with the post. You work hard, you think you're doing what's best - and you end up locked up in a turbolift with a phaser pointing at you. Let me tell you, Meltek, whatever you may think, it's not a job to aspire to...'

Meltek smashed the weapon once, twice, across Garak's face. _One day,_ Garak thought, not for the first time in his life, _I will learn to shut up. Ah well,_ he reflected, as the world went black, _at least if I'm unconscious I won't be able to worry about how cramped it is in here..._

***

Peyta burst into Kira's office. 'Where is he? Is he all right? What's happening?'

Kira raised her hand, tried to calm the girl. 'It's OK, Peyta. He's being held hostage, but we have the situation under control, and we'll have him out of there in about half an hour.'

Peyta opened her mouth, but was cut off as the security officer came in and handed Kira a PADD. 'You'd better take a look at this, Colonel.'

Kira rapidly scanned the report and her face suddenly twisted in horror. 'Meltek's father was executed fifteen years ago on the basis of a confession extracted by Garak!' she said. 'How the _hell_ did Garak miss this one? Isn't he bothering with security any more?'

Peyta swallowed. 'My father handed over responsibility for his personal security to me,' she said.

Kira looked incredulous. 'Your father handed over his personal security to a twenty-year-old _girl_? No offence, Peyta, but does he have a _deathwish_?'

'I'm the only person he trusts!' she answered, a little pathetically.

'Trustworthiness is no replacement for experience!' Kira shot back. 'As I think we're having demonstrated! This is basic fact-finding, Peyta! How did you manage to miss it?'

Peyta didn't answer, just looked deeply remorseful. Kira felt suddenly awkward. Poor girl, it was bad enough to have her father being held hostage, but to realize that you were partially responsible... She touched Peyta's arm. 'It's OK. We'll get him out of there - alive. This is a situation we're trained to deal with.'

***

Garak's eyes opened, and he glanced down at his watch. He must have been out about ten or fifteen minutes. He touched his forehead, and winced as his fingers came away sticky with blood.

Meltek loomed over him. 'That's just for starters. Wait till I get you back to Cardassia Prime.'

***

Kira was watching the clock, chewing absent-mindedly at a nail. They had about four minutes before Meltek was going to come out. She had managed to persuade Meltek that so far they were having difficulty getting a channel open to Cardassia Prime, but it wasn't going to work for much longer. She drummed her fingers on the desk. 

Her security chief's voice came through the com. 'Colonel. We have the runabout ready.'

Peyta looked at her, aghast. 'You're not letting them leave the station, are you?'

Kira glanced at her. 'If necessary.'

'They'll kill him!'

'Peyta, my priority at the moment is to get them out of that lift. Once they're out in the open, I can start to think about how I can end this situation. We can do nothing whilst they're still under cover. If I can give Meltek the impression that we're going along with his demands, he's less likely to panic, and so less likely to do something stupid to your father.' She breathed out. 'And we're trying not to get anyone killed, Meltek as well as your father.'

Peyta looked back at her in amazement. 'Who cares about him? I don't care if you shoot him through the head - if that's what it takes!'

'Peyta, I understand your sentiment, but we have laws on DS9. I can't go around shooting people just because it suits me. If it looks like he's going to harm Garak, then we'll shoot - to _injure_. But nothing until then.'

The girl subsided.

'All right,' said Kira. 'Time to escort them down to the runabout.'

***

The security team was lining the corridor, weapons aimed at the turbolift door. Kira stood towards the back, her own weapon drawn.

There was a deathly quiet - then a grinding sound. The lift doors were opening.

The security team raised their weapons.

The duo came out. Garak was at the front, Meltek using him as a shield. Meltek had one arm around Garak's throat, cranking his head sideways, and the other hand was holding his weapon to Garak's right temple.

Kira heard Peyta gasp involuntarily from behind her. _The damn girl had followed her down. Did she have no idea how dangerous this was going to be?_

'Pull your men back, Colonel,' Meltek shouted.

Kira hesitated.

'Colonel, I will shoot without a second thought. You have to understand that martyrdom holds a certain appeal for me.'

Kira nodded. 'Pull back,' she ordered.

They started a slow dance down the corridor, Meltek shuffling Garak forward, the security team retreating so that they were never behind the pair. Eventually, the security team fanned backwards, into the docking bay. This was the place where they would be most likely to be able to wrong-foot Meltek; the narrow corridors protected him - here in the open they would have more of a chance to surround him and end it. If Meltek chose the quick path across the open space to the runabout, that would be their best chance. But if he made it to the runabout... Well, thought Kira, it would be time to think of Plan B.

Her security team was now spread out across the docking bay. There was a hushed pause, a moment of anticipation, as the bit part players waited for the two leads to make their appearance from the wings. 

_Come out, come out, wherever you are,_ Kira crooned to herself. _Come straight on out, right into the open, and I'll show you a military coup._

A shadow fell into the docking bay. Garak was pushed through the door, Meltek close behind, the pair locked in their twisted embrace.

_Come right out... right into the open..._

Suddenly, Kira's concentration was shattered by a blast from a phaser. Meltek staggered, and fell backwards, shot in the forehead.

It was a ghastly anticlimax. The security team remained immobile, bodies tense, waiting for action, half-expecting Meltek to leap up and play the scene out as they had all anticipated.

_What in the name of the Prophets had happened?_

Very slowly, Kira cranked her head round, and found herself looking at Peyta. The girl was immobile, one arm stretched out straight, clasping a phaser, her other arm hanging limp by her side. Her eyes, ice blue, were staring flatly at her victim. His face was destroyed. Peyta's arm started to shake, and fell to her side. _Where the hell had she got that phaser? And where the hell did she learn to shoot like that? What did the war do to you, Peyta Garak?_

For one brief, impenetrable moment, no-one spoke, no-one moved. Then Garak stood up from where he had fell as Meltek had collapsed. He gestured to Peyta, with a trembling hand, beckoning towards her. ' _Dearest girl,_ ' he whispered, stretching out his arms. Peyta's face suddenly crumbled, and she looked exactly like what she was - a twenty-year-old girl who had just killed for the first time. With a swift, desperate movement, she lunged towards her father, falling into his offered arms, sobbing wildly, and he scooped her into an embrace. ' _It's over,_ ' he whispered, repeating it again and again, a charm to dispel what had just happened.

Kira watched the tableau before her - the father soothing the girl, stroking her hair, kissing the top of her head, the girl weeping as if her self-control had suddenly snapped and there was now nothing left to dam a flood of emotion. Imagine how Peyta would have felt if Meltek had killed Garak, knowing it was her lapse of judgement that had let him get close to her father...

Kira turned away. There would be no question of pressing charges. Peyta's technical status as Garak's personal security chief vindicated her actions. Kira nodded to two of the security team. 'Deal with the body. I'll escort First Minister Garak and his daughter back to their quarters.'

As she came up beside Garak, he lifted his eyes to meet hers. She gave him a cool look. _I know you set this up, you sly old bastard._ He gazed back, eyes clear and blue, giving no quarter. _Prove it._

***

Late that night, Kira finally persuaded Garak to go to the infirmary. Bashir was unusually quiet, but Garak was still buzzing too much from the success of the evening session with the Committee to think much about it. A broad grin was plastered over his face, and every so often he would find himself laughing to himself.

He had spent an hour letting his fury rip at a much-chastened Reconstruction Committee. The deep cut on his forehead and the bruising on his face had reinforced his point most effectively. Somehow restraining himself from using the phrase 'I told you so', he had demanded a reconsideration of the matters of aid and reparations - and slid a handful of other points past them as well. They had listened - oh, for the first time in a year they had _actually listened_! - and had heard what he had been trying to tell them in all that time, that Cardassia needed more, not less, help, before a disaster overtook the whole quadrant.

After an almost imperceptible tussle with her conscience, Kira had decided she didn't care if Garak had personally choreographed the past day, and frankly she wouldn't even have been bothered if he'd finished the show with a few dancing girls and a blaze of fireworks. What counted was that she could now force her government's hand on the aid policy and make a difference to the people suffering on Cardassia. Kira spent the time before the session screaming blue murder at her masters back on Bajor, explaining furiously how their vindictive approach had triggered an embarrassing and dangerous incident on the station, and had nearly plunged Cardassia into civil war. Shakaar panicked. He gave her the authority to take whatever stance she saw fit on the aid and reparations motion. 

The Klingon representative held fast. Garak almost felt respect for such dogged adherence to one's principles, no matter how bigoted they were. In contrast, and much to Garak's surprise, the Romulan, perhaps mindful that five systems might well have been lost - and sensing the shifting mood of the Committee - overcame his personal animosity and abstained. On his way out of the conference room, the Romulan spoke to Garak in a low voice which was tinged with respect if a little frustration. 'May I congratulate you on a bravura performance, First Minister?'

So the final tally was three votes against, one abstention, one in favour. Motion rejected.

Garak chuckled.

Bashir watched Garak's amusement with increasing irritation.

'You don't change, do you, Garak?' Julian finally said, as he removed the final traces of the bruising.

Garak frowned, annoyed to have his good mood punctured, however slightly. 'My dear doctor, whatever moral you wish to expound, please have the decency to wait until I am out of earshot. I have had enough to put up with today without a bout of nausea.'

Julian shook his head. 'I know what you've done today. More manipulation, more games. You've got just what you wanted, haven't you? The reparations motion crushed, full aid restored to Cardassia, and the Committee's wholehearted support of your government. You even got the Committee to insist on cutbacks in the Cardassian military - which suits your purposes well, doesn't it?'

'Are you coming to your point, doctor?'

'Oh yes.' Julian leaned back from his patient, his face set in disgust. 'So you had to set up and kill your own bodyguards - but I suppose that seemed a small price to pay.'

'Now we're in the realms of conjecture, doctor. I wouldn't say these things openly, if I were you. I'm a public figure with a reputation to protect. I might have to sue.' Garak smiled broadly.

Julian laughed unpleasantly. 'Oh, don't get me wrong, Garak! I admire your style, as ever. And I'm glad it's turned out the way it did.'

'Then why the long face?' Garak sounded almost playful.

Julian swallowed, lowered his voice. 'Because you didn't do it all yourself, did you, Garak? No, you've got someone else to do your dirty work for you now - carry out your plans, commit your murders. Your own daughter.'

Garak's good humour disappeared in an instant. 'Don't say that to me again, doctor - ever,' he murmured. He stood up, trying to make a physical break from the conversation.

'It's the _truth_ , Garak,' Bashir carried on doggedly. 'So the First Minister of Cardassia can't be seen to get his hands dirty? Well, that's OK, because Peyta's there to handle it for you.'

'I _never_ ask Peyta to do anything,' Garak shot back.

'Tain said that to me about you.'

That hit the mark. Garak blanched. It was some time before he could speak, and then it was in a whisper, tightly controlled. 'How _dare_ you? What gives you the right to judge me? Do you think I embrace amorality _willingly_? Do you think I get some perverse pleasure from the choices I've made, the crimes I've committed?' He looked away quickly, as if he felt he had given something away, and Julian realized this was the first time he had heard Garak admit to feeling guilt, ever.

Julian was suddenly overcome with shame. 'Garak, I know I can't begin to imagine what it's like...'

'No, you can't,' he cut in. 'Not until you've watched people starve day after day in burnt-out cities and known that you can do _nothing_ to prevent it.' He turned away in disgust. 'Enjoy the moral high ground, doctor. But you might find it lonely up there.' Garak left. 

Julian sat down wearily. 'Well,' he murmured. 'That didn't go quite as planned.'

A noise made him look up. Peyta was standing in front of him. She looked worn out, but her gaze was pitying. 'You're wrong,' she said. 'He doesn't use me. It's all my own choice. I put Meltek there because I knew he'd be useful one day - you can always use someone's grudges, it's their weak link. He only took a little tap.' She seemed to be speaking as if to herself, her voice distant, weary. 'I told Meltek about the reparations motion, and that father was going to sign away five systems to the Romulans. I knew he had links with the opposing military faction, so I told him I was getting concerned about my father's action, that I was a patriot too. Spun him a line that I couldn't sit back any more and let father destroy Cardassia completely. And then he went off and did exactly what I wanted him to do.'

'And then you killed him.'

'Well, I couldn't let him talk, could I?' she said in exasperation, as though she was saying something which should have been self-evident.

Julian grimaced. 'Peyta...' Did she not understand the road she was heading down?

She cut across him. 'You don't understand, doctor. Father and I... We _love_ our home. We will do anything for it. The thing that matters most to him is to see Cardassia _alive_ again. And what matters most to me is that he gets what he wants, and then he can have some _peace_.'

Julian didn't reply, couldn't.

'It's easy for you, doctor. You've never really had to make hard choices. You've never had to choose to kill so that others can live. You've never only had the choice between one evil and another. And you've never felt it _eat_ your soul. That's what it's been like for my father, for his whole life. If I can end that, if I can give him some sort of peace - then I shall murder and lie my way across the entire Alpha Quadrant.'

Julian shook his head. 'I hope you never come to regret that, Peyta. I think your father regrets the price he paid for his own father's love.'

Peyta's eyes shone. 'And that's the difference, doctor. I don't need to win my father's love. I know that I have it.' She started to leave, then turned back. 'Don't judge him, doctor. He has made choices that would torture _your_ conscience for the rest of your life.'

He looked back at her fondly, sadly. 'And what about you, Peyta? When will your conscience become too much to bear?'

'I can carry a lot more guilt, doctor.' She smiled, tilted her head in the courteous, utterly inscrutable manner her father had perfected years ago. 'Goodbye, doctor. Come to Cardassia in a decade. Then ask us if it was all worthwhile.' She turned away and walked out of the infirmary.

***

_2386_

They watched the figure approach, walking a little slowly, stopped by passers-by who wanted to talk to him, say that they'd met him. He treated each with courtesy and patience.

In time, he achieved the top of the steps, a little out of breath - he was over sixty now. Smiling, he stretched out a hand to his daughter, knowing that it would be a little effort for her to stand. She took it gladly, let him help her up. Their eyes touched, caressed each other with a love that had survived the loss of exile, the destruction of war - and the cost of peace. He took her arm gently, turned to his friend.

'My dear professor, I missed you earlier. I hope you're not becoming shy in your middle age?'

Julian smiled, took the woman's other arm. 'Not a chance. Now, why don't we go down and join the party?'

The trio made their way back down the steps, into the crowd, as the sun slowly warmed Cardassia Prime.

***

_December 1999_


End file.
